He’s a smart kid. He’ll keep his head down, stay out of trouble. Just… lean into that notion.
The lineup at the Lerdo Jail lunch counter was twenty-men long, stretching back to the corridor outside the cafeteria. Lawrence Cresswell used his height advantage to glance over those ahead of him.
He half-turned to face Marcus Pell, in the lineup behind him. “Good news! We’re having shit today, with a side of soft white shit, and some steamed shit for vegetables.”
Marcus couldn’t help but smile. He’d only been in Lerdo for a day and the first night had been disturbing, trying to bury his head under his pillow to shut out the screams and wails. A little dry humor went a long way.
“You think we can get shitty seconds?”
“Nah, barely enough shit to go around,” Lawrence said. Then the big, bald meth addict shook his head. “Man… you know there are legal limits on how poor the food they serve us can be, right? I’m not sure who the inspector is, but that dude has family in government, would be my guess.”
“I guess.” Marcus kept his back to the counter so that he could keep his eyes on the room and the inmates lined up behind him. The dining hall’s long rectangular tables were mostly full, orange jump-suited inmates seated with their free arms ahead of their trays, to protect their meagre diets from theft.
They had thirty minutes to eat, three times per day, along with an hour in the yard for exercise. There was no other free time outside cells, which Lawrence told him wasn’t the case at penitentiaries. Convicted criminals got way more freedom than those awaiting trial.
Sharing a cell with Lawrence had been good fortune, but he didn’t take the big man’s protection for granted. They barely knew each other. He checked out his new friend in his periphery, Lawrence chatting with one of the staff as if they went back a while.
Marcus turned his attention back to the dining hall, the shotgun-bearing guards at either exit. I can’t end up in a place like this. I just can’t.
He clocked movement to his right, a shortish orange blur as someone strode up the side of the line. It was Horton, one of the guys in the cell nearest theirs. He’d been arguing with Lawrence the night before.
He slowed as he approached, then reached into a slit cut into the jumpsuit. The shiv he withdrew was short, a cardboard-and-tape handle with a polished, needle-thin blade, probably crafted out of scrap in the workshop. Horton looked up at Lawrence, who was still talking to staff, facing the wrong way. He drew back the shiv.
“NO!” Marcus jumped forward, hammering down on the man’s forearm with a fist, the shiv knocked out of his hand. The blade clattered on the cement floor as Lawrence turned to see what was happening.
The burly giant looked down at it, as did his attacker. Then they looked at each other. Horton had turned white. Lawrence’s cinderblock fist shot out with surprising speed, catching the smaller man’s jaw. Horton crumpled to the ground.
Inmates stood en masse to see what was going on, murmurs of a fight growing.
A whistle sounded, then another, shrill, piercing. The correctional officers continued to blow them even as they approached. “SETTLE DOWN! NOW!” one yelled.
The crowd cleared as they neared. Lawrence stepped menacingly towards the prone Horton.
“Lawrie, leave it!” Marcus advised, grabbing the other man by the shoulder of his shirt and tugging on it.
Lawrence turned his way, his expression rageful, eyes dark. But instead of attacking, he took a deep breath, his features scrunched as he tried to ward off his desire to beat on his attacker.
“Inmate, step away!” the guard cautioned.
Lawrence held up both hands in a show of placation and stepped back.
“Saw the whole thing,” the second guard said as he joined his colleague. “Inmate Horton, on the ground, attempted to stab the big fella. Big fella cold-cocked him.”
“Like he said,” Lawrence offered, his hands still up. He lowered them slowly.
The first guard stooped to help Horton up, gripping him tightly by an upper arm. “Don’t get any stupid ideas because of this,” he warned Lawrence. “He’ll be dealt with by the proper channels.”
His partner picked up the shiv.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Lawrence said as they led Horton away.
The room began to return to normal, inmates turning back to the lunch queue, the dining room ruckus resuming.
“That could have gone worse,” Marcus said.
Lawrence looked at him, his eyes shining a little. “Yeah. Man… you saved me. You didn’t have to do that.”
“I mean… yeah, of course I did.”
“You’re going to have to keep your head down,” Lawrence said. “Robbie’s got a brother in here, and his cell mate is quite the piece of shit, too. That’s why it was a big deal. Because they’re going to be gunning for you too, now.”
“But… I didn’t do anything anyone wouldn’t—”
“And that’s lesson number one,” Lawrence muttered, leaning in so he could keep his voice low. “Never forget where we are.”
20
The Kern County Library had archives going back decades, and its files on Professor Richard Jenkins’s various ventures added up to dozens of articles and photos.
Bob kept himself to recent years, getting help from a young assistant librarian. The more recent newspapers she brought up via an internet portal incurred a charge per file accessed, which seemed disappointing.
Didn’t this all use to be free? Bob thought as he thumbed through it at a research table.
Most of it was run-of-the-mill stuff: year-end results in the business section, a string of sports section pieces on Jenkins Racing and its many IndyCar, endurance and stock car wins over the years.
But it didn’t tell him what he really wanted to know… which was why they had a fuel truck fueling up a Nitro Funny Car at a track in Pahrump when that track didn’t feature Nitro Funny Car races.
Maybe it was just PR, like the guy at the track suggested. Maybe you’re angry that Marcus’s supposed benefactors may have set him up.
